


Choices

by dragonwriter24cmf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: After the failed first attempt at punishment, a new judgement has been handed down concerning Aziraphale and Crowley. One must bear the punishment, while the other watches. When faced with the commands of Heaven and Hell both, what will Aziraphale and Crowley choose, and with what consequences?
Kudos: 16





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters are the original property of Niel Gaiman.

**Choices**

It had been a while, perhaps a month, since the Apocalypse-That-Didn’t-Happen. Aziraphale and Crowley had both been on edge for the first few days, wondering if there were to be more attempts at punishment in their future. Sure, they’d got past the whole ‘death by holy water/hellfire’ ordeal, but who was to say that Heaven and Hell wouldn’t find something else to punish them with? Neither side was the most creative, but that’s what humans were for. They’d invented a lot of nasty ways of punishing people. Hell, especially, had taken to copying the particularly evil looking methods. Like thumbscrews.

But nothing happened, and gradually both of them relaxed. They went back to feeding ducks and getting lunch at the Ritz, eating sushi. Aziraphale got his bookshop reorganized just the way he liked it, and even dared to open and peruse a few of the books Adam had added to his collection. They weren’t his normal sort, but that was all right. He performed a few discrete miracles, just to make people’s days better, because he could.

Crowley drove his Bentley at high speeds down the M-25, just because he could, slept for two or three days straight, and bought several new houseplants that he terrorized into jungle-reminiscent levels of luxurious greenery. He left all his tapes in the Bentley and watched with pleasure as they became, once again, ‘Best of Queen’. He even went and actually bought petrol, just because there was petrol to buy, and drank his oldest and best drinks, the ones he’d been saving for forever. It seemed like the proper time for it. He got up to little bits of mischief, and a few things that he’d justify as ‘bad enough’ if he had to, but really did just because the world was still in existence and it seemed like the thing to do.

In retrospect, they both should have guessed that everything was too simple and too quiet. After 6000 years, they really should have known the warning signs. But both of them were too busy being relieved that the world hadn’t ended, and they’d survived the fall-out. Which is why what happened caught them by surprise.

They’d met again in St. James’ Park, Aziraphale feeding the ducks and Crowley teasing them, when the world seemed to slow and stop, then sort of crystallize around them. They had just enough time to register what had happened, when they realized they were not alone.

There were two – not men, but man-shaped entities, rather – standing in front of them. One of them was quite clearly of Heavenly origin, the other equally clearly from Hell. Neither were recognizable to Crowley and Aziraphale.

That was worrisome. During the Almost-Apocalypse, they’d had encounters with most of the higher-ups of their respective organizations. The two confronting them now both fairly screamed ‘Higher Up’, or in Crowley’s case ‘Lower Down’, but they weren’t familiar.

Aziraphale had the odd feeling that his might be even higher up than Gabriel, and that was...well, troubling, was the word he thought he wanted, because he’d thought the only one like that was Metatron, and this didn’t look to be him.

Neither of them had much time to ponder the matter, however, before they spoke. In tandem, which ought to have been confusing, but was still completely clear and understandable to both parties.

“Principality Aziraphale”

“Demon Crowley”

“Your punishment has been decided.”

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a look. They’d been caught off guard, with no time to plan. They were going to have to, as the humans would say, wing it.

Crowley, who was somewhat better at that sort of thing, having had more experience, took a step forward. “Oh? And what might you gents be punishing us for, then?” It was a bit of a stalling tactic, but he was also curious. Hell had, as far as they knew, thrown him in a holy water bath. What else was there to do? Aziraphale had been, as far as Heaven knew, encased in hell-fire.

“You have interfered with the Great Plan. You have defied your superiors. There must be consequences.”

“Oh, that. Thought that’s what the bit about the holy water and the hell-fire was for. Didn’t work out like either of you lot expected, but that’s not our fault, now is it?” Crowley tried to look nonchalant, but he was nervous enough. Either of these entities could destroy him with little to no effort. It was worse than facing Dagon, or Beelzebub.

“The decision has been made.”

And that didn’t answer the question, or help with a damn thing. Or a blessed thing, either. Crowley bit back a sharp remark.

It was Aziraphale who asked the question that mattered. “And might we know what the decision is? That you’ve come to, I mean.” He gestured deferentially, more to Heaven’s representative than Hell’s, but that was expected.

“One will bear punishment. One will bear witness. Here and now. Choose which will be which.”

Aziraphale winced. “And what is the punishment to be?”

“That will be according to the nature of the one who receives it.”

Oh. That sounded…ominous.

Aziraphale looked to Crowley. Crowley looked at Aziraphale.

“Choose.”

Aziraphale winced again. “Crowley…”

Crowley shook his head. “I know, angel. Tough choice. But I really think you should...” He stopped, looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale turned, expecting to see anything from the representatives walking towards them to streams of fire and brimstone. But there was nothing. He started to turn around. “What...”

He turned straight into Crowley’s left hook. It was astonishingly strong, and completely unexpected. Aziraphale was caught completely unprepared, and thus there was a predictable result. He dropped like a rock, temporarily knocked senseless.

Crowley looked down at the toppled angel. “I really think you should watch.”

It wasn’t that he was looking forward to whatever punishment they had in mind. Not at all. But in Hell, one learned to tolerate punishments of many kinds. To endure. And even working on Earth for 6000 years, he’d had a fair share of punishments, and torments. To say nothing of the Fall itself. He had built up a tolerance, so to speak. A tolerance that he didn’t think Aziraphale had ever had reason or opportunity to develop.

When he was sure the angel would be unconscious long enough for him to attend to the matter at hand, he turned to the two waiting entities. “All right. Choice is made. He’s going to be watching. So let’s get on with it, shall we?”

The emissary of Heaven clicked his fingers, and produced a frame, from which hung a set of manacles. The emissary of Hell waved a hand vaguely in Crowley’s direction, and suddenly he knew what he was to do. If he intended to follow through, that is.

He did. He’d made his decision, just as he had 200 years ago when he’d asked Aziraphale to give him some holy water, in case things went bad.

With a slight grimace, Crowley removed his sunglasses. Then his shoes, socks, coat and shirt. Then, barefoot and shirtless, he made his way over to the frame. He held up his hands, and the shackles, without his help, fastened about his wrists and drew his arms out to either side. He grimaced at the pinch of the cuffs, and the faint, itching sting of the Divine Presence which had miracled them up, but didn’t fight. He’d asked for this, after all. Literally.

Only, nothing was happening. He was just standing there, chained up and half-undressed, and otherwise unharmed. Except for the itching. He waited a bit more, then tilted back in his bonds. “Oi. Are we going to get on with this or what?”

“One must bear witness.”

“Right.” And the angel was still out of it. Crowley huffed a sigh and tried not to show his annoyance. Or his fear. The shackles were restraining his demonic powers, preventing him from even so small a miracle as reviving the angel himself. He bit the inside of his lip, and waited for Aziraphale to wake up, hoping it wouldn’t be too long.

It wasn’t. Ten minutes later, Aziraphale stirred. His temple ached, and he eased it with a thought. He wondered for a moment how he had come to be horizontal, not to mention in an uncomfortable position that surely would have caused a human a severe backache. Then he remembered, and got up, rather quicker than any human would have been able to.

He was still in the bubble of frozen time, or whatever it was. The emissaries of both Heaven and Hell were also still present. But Crowley – Crowley was no longer by his side. Instead, the demon was standing, barefoot and shirtless, in a strange sort of frame, to which he was connected by a set of shackles. Aziraphale inhaled a breath he didn’t really need. “Crowley...”

“You watch, angel.” Crowley’s voice was soft. He seemed to be trying for the same careless attitude he’d had before, but there was tension in his shoulders and the set of his feet on the grass.

“Oh, but Crowley...” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he might have said, because Crowley only shook his head with a soft snort.

“You watch. It’s been decided.” He looked at the shackles, at the frame holding him, and offered Aziraphale a crooked grin with more than a glimmer of fear in it. “I’ve got more practice with this sort of thing than you. So sit tight angel. Be over in a flash.” He cocked his head. “And don’t forget to watch, yeah? Bloody bastards wouldn’t get on with it until you were awake, and it’s dead boring, being stuck like this. Tiresome, even.” He flicked his yellow gaze at the emissaries. “Well, he’s awake. Come on chaps. Let’s get this over with.”

He was trying so hard to act unconcerned, flippant even. But his whole demeanor reminded Aziraphale of the way Crowley had acted in the days leading up to the End, after they’d discovered that the Antichrist had been mislaid and lost. Nonchalance over terror. Snark and sarcasm to hide fear.

Aziraphale wanted very much to storm over, to rip the bindings away and declare that Crowley would be the one watching, that he could handle a bit of punishment, thank you very much. But he couldn’t. Something told him it wouldn’t be allowed. And Crowley had made the first move, was already secured and waiting.

He swallowed, though it was unnecessary. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to change your mind?” The query was directed to both Crowley and the Emissaries.

“Not a chance. Made my choice. Be a relief really, have it done with, no more wondering if they’re going to come at me with something else later.” Crowley shrugged. “Been expecting something for ages, really. Hell’s not exactly the forgiving type.” He glanced at the Emissaries. “Wasn’t expecting collaboration, but I probably should have, the whole holy water/hell-fire switch-up.”

“Yes. I suppose so.” Aziraphale considered trying for a smile, but it seemed pointless.

“The decision has been made. We begin.” The Emissaries spoke again, still in that echoing synchronization that was so unnerving.

“Of course.” Aziraphale straightened back and focused his attention on Crowley. Crowley looked back, keeping his gaze locked with Aziraphale’s, as if the angel was an anchor for him.

That lasted until the Emissary of Heaven’s first touch. The Emissary had dipped a finger into a basin of water that had appeared from nowhere, miracled into existence, and touched his wet finger to the back of Crowley’s neck.

Crowley’s head whipped back, spine arching as the finger trailed down the length of it. His jaw clenched, then stretched wide as he let out a howl of pain. And after a moment, Aziraphale understood.

Holy water. Somehow the Emissaries were keeping it from immediately destroying Crowley, but the touch was like the most potent acid would be to a human. That was to say, agonizing.

The Emissary of Heaven traced Crowley’s spine with his finger, then his arms, from the shoulder to wrist. Each hand was touched, back and palm, leaving red marks that Aziraphale assumed were duplicated on Crowley’s back.

The Emissary continued, tracing a line on Crowley’s forehead, then his eyes, cheekbones and lips before placing a wet palm print over Crowley’s heart, or where it would be if he were human. Another line was traced down Crowley’s core, the center of his chest and abdomen, then water was dripped over his bare feet. Each gesture was made with slow, deliberate, ritualistic movements. Perhaps there was a ritual to it, some rule or reason playing out, but all Aziraphale could see was how it prolonged Crowley’s torment.

The demon writhed in his bonds, unable to escape, and held in place by Hell’s Emissary when he tried to jerk away. His voice cracked in his screams. The only break was when the Emissary traced over his mouth, cutting him off and reducing him to gasping, choking sobs of pain.

He wished he could believe Crowley was exaggerating his pain, playing it up, but he had long ago learned to tell falsehood from truth with Crowley, and this was entirely genuine. Aziraphale bit his lip to keep his own cries silenced, and felt two tears slide slowly from his eyes and down his cheeks as he witnessed Crowley’s suffering.

He hadn’t ever actually observed the punishments that he knew Crowley had sometimes incurred. In fact, he had only once even known that one had been delivered. Crowley had disappeared, sometime around the coronation of Elizabeth the First, and come back, withdrawn and oddly quiet. He’d only said that Hell had wanted him to prevent the rise of Elizabeth, and that he’d been punished for his failure. What the punishment had been, he had never said, and Aziraphale had never asked. The disturbing pall over Crowley’s demeanor had been enough to keep his questions to himself. It had been some time before the demon had regained his usual dry wit, and Aziraphale had been too relieved over the resumption of their normal relationship to give it any more thought.

Besides, they had shortly thereafter gotten involved with that Shakespeare chap, and he’d done his first ever bit of tempting, in Edinburgh, under the newly revised Arrangement. He’d been too busy wondering if he was going to get punished himself to give any thought to Crowley’s recent ordeals.

But this. This was different. This was happening directly in front of him. Worse, it was happening because of him. Because Crowley had chosen to endure the whole awful thing rather than allow him to suffer. So instead, Crowley was the one suffering, groaning and sobbing in the chains. And the demon had known, better than he, what he might face, and done it anyway.

In short, Crowley was suffering, enduring, for him. Not for some possible failure, but  _ for him _ . 

It was the most selfless thing that he had seen since the Crucifixion. And it filled him with shame that it should be the demon who had offered such a sacrifice, rather than himself. He was an angel. And at the moment, he felt rather like a coward.

The Heavenly Emissary dipped his finger in the water again and used it to trace a single sigil at the hollow of Crowley’s throat. The lines and marks of holy water gave off a faint glow. Crowley’s scream cracked into a new register, one no human throat could possibly have managed, and then he fell limp, eyes closing as his consciousness fled from the torment he had been subjected to.

The Emissary stepped back. A wave of the ethereal hand, and the chains and basin disappeared. Crowley toppled, limp and unaware, to the dirt, the livid lines of his ordeal bright against his pale skin.

Aziraphale stepped forward, intending to go to him, but stopped when both Emissaries looked at him. “Is he…?”

“It is done. And he lives.” The eerie echo filled the air, this time a welcome change from the sounds of Crowley’s anguish. “To the witness, we give these.”

The Heavenly Emissary reached into his garment and withdrew two folded sheaves of paper, which he handed to Aziraphale. Aziraphale took them. On the back of the topmost one was his name. Or...names. His earthly name, Aziraphale, was written in a neat script humans described as copperplate, but under that was a sigil that he recognized as his True Name, written in the language of Heaven. He gulped, and edged the paper down just enough to see Crowley’s mortal name written on the other sheaf, before he covered it again. He knew, without a doubt, that Crowley’s True Name would be inscribed below, and that was a secret he felt he had no right to know.

He’d never asked what Crowley’s name had been before the Fall. Crowley had never offered it either, and no wonder. True Names, the name of one’s innermost essence, held power, and to use it was to give another power over your very self. Angels, servants of God, had no need to fear such things, but the Fallen...well, he suspected it was different in Hell. In any case, Crowley had never given him his True Name, and it felt like a sort of betrayal to take advantage and look at it now, when he was vulnerable and defenseless. To say nothing of the ordeal the demon had just undergone.

“It is done.” Once more the eerie echo filled the air, then everything seemed to shimmer. The Emissaries vanished, and the crystallized bubble of time popped and settled back to normal with an almost audible ‘whoosh’.

Aziraphale wasted no time. He stuck the missives, whatever they were, into his coat pocket, collected Crowley’s discarded clothing, then the demon himself, and miracled them back to his shop.

It was risky, but he rather thought it a better option than trying to carry Crowley the distance, or attempting to obtain some form of conveyance, like a cab. Crowley was still half-undressed, and he was certain the demon’s condition would have gathered more than a few odd looks.

Besides, he knew with absolute certainty that Crowley would despise being put on display in such a way. The demon was neither shy nor modest, but to be seen so exposed and vulnerable and wounded would upset him to no end. Aziraphale was inclined to spare the demon what discomfort he could.

Inside, he laid Crowley on a couch he generally kept for appearances, which became suddenly flat and rather vaguely bed-like. He dithered for a moment, wondering what he could do for the demon, before he reluctantly admitted that he was not well versed in the practice of tending wounds. And that none of the things he did know to do would be of any help.

Even unconscious, Crowley seemed to be in some discomfort. There was a sheen of moisture on his face, and his expression was tight, rather than relaxed as Aziraphale thought it should be.

In the end, uncertain of what to do, Aziraphale covered Crowley with a lightweight blanket, also for show in the usual course of things. Then he sat beside him, watching anxiously for any signs of awakening.

After ten minutes, he remembered the missives. He pulled them out of his pocket, set the one for Crowley face down on a nearby end table, and then gingerly unfolded the one bearing his own name.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. A note of censure, perhaps. Whatever he had expected, what he received was not it. Instead, the letter ran thus:

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_Dear, dear Aziraphale. My Guardian of the Eastern Gate, my Angel on Earth, my Heavenly son among humans. I have watched you a long time, my dear._

_Ever since Eden, when you gave your sword to Adam to protect him and Eve, and spoke without anger or vengeance to the demon who approached you, I have known. Known that it would be you who would take the first steps required for the Ineffable Plan._

_You guessed correctly, by the way. The Great Plan and My Plan are not always the same. Often not, in point of fact. After all, if it were written and could be read, then it would hardly be my Ineffable Plan, now would it? But Plans, Great and Small and Ineffable, are the nature of things, and must be allowed their proper place and time to come to fruition._

_It was a test, of sorts. And you, my dear Aziraphale, you and your friend Crowley, did splendidly. Yes, I observed your plans and your attempts, and though I had my own already in place, I was proud of you for making the effort, as it were. Well done, my angel._

_And on that note, you wonder perhaps why I had Metatron chide you, if this was my intention all along. But how can conviction, faith and courage be tested save by extremes? You had to believe you were alone, save for your friend, and yet be willing to sacrifice all for humanity. And you were._

_You wonder, perhaps, why I say well done, when you have just observed your friend being punished, in theory, for the actions you both undertook. I say well done because it was well done, and credit is deserved._

_I say I have watched you for a long time. And I have. I witnessed all your interactions with the demon Crowley. The growth of your Arrangement. The temptations and the miracles on both sides. It was something few could have done, and only you and he have ever taken so far. And so, we come to this. A final trial for the both of you, my dear._

_You read this because Crowley accepted the punishment for the both of you, and his punishment was this: to have given to him a measure of Divine Light. The light he once lost. Painful, to be sure, but whether it damages him, well, that is up to you, my dear Aziraphale._

_You see, the Light causes him pain because it wars with the Darkness, the Demonic, inside him. A war the Darkness has an advantage in, being of greater amount and duration. For him, it’s rather like Falling again, though as you know Crowley, you know that he never Fell as far as many of his brethren._

_And yet, if he can be brought into Balance, his pain will be removed, and he will heal. Redemption and Damnation in one, as Humans are. As I intended all Creation to be, in time. Though that is not to be known, yet._

_You can bring him Balance, Aziraphale, if you choose. Simply trace the sigil at the bottom of this letter upon his flesh, in fire, and place your hand over it. It will act as a gateway, and draw the Darkness from Crowley to you. Be warned, Aziraphale, that this will be intensely painful for you. As painful for you as acceptance of the Light was for him. It will bring you both to Balance, my Angel and my Demon who are both now to be my Earthly Guardians._

_The choice is yours, as it was his._

_Whatever choice you make, be well, dear Aziraphale. I have Plans for you._

There was no signature, but it didn’t need one. There was only one entity in all of Creation who could have written him such a letter, who would have written it. He now understood why the Emissaries were unfamiliar. They had been His.

Crowley, it seemed, was right. The Rebellion, the War, the Apple, all a test and a trial for the growth and development of all Creation, angels and demons alike and included. It was a bit infuriating, but he was also oddly pleased that he and Crowley had apparently done well, according to the Father.

He glanced at Crowley, and any pride he felt disappeared. The demon was still in pain, still suffering from his trial. And perhaps it was a Blessing in disguise, but then, Crowley was a demon. Blessings were painful, disguised or not.

He looked at the sigil written at the bottom of his letter, then at the demon. There was no thought needed. Crowley had willingly suffered for him, and if there were any way he could alleviate his pain, then it would be done.

Gently, he eased the blanket down, to expose the demon’s bare chest. He considered using a miracle for the fire, then drew out a match instead, worried that any touch of divine in the fire might give Crowley more pain.

He lit a candle, heated a metal point of a pen that had run dry some time ago, then bent and carefully traced the sigil on Crowley’s chest. It glowed, dull and sullen. Before he could think too much, he laid his hand over it.

At first, all he felt was warmth, a faint burning sensation. And then...and then…

It was...indescribable. Ice and fire, pain bordering on something else, something Crowley might have called ecstasy. Despair and Darkness, ruin and grief. It was all the worst of the world, the darkness between the stars, the deepest void, a Pandora’s box held closed with his hand.

It was awful, and he could not prevent the cry that escaped him. But he remained where he was, letting it flood him, enduring, held in place by one thought that repeated like a mantra in his mind.

Crowley had endured this. Without hope, without knowing what he now knew. Perhaps he had endured it twice, if this was what Falling was like. Crowley had suffered for him, and he could do no less for the demon. No, not the demon, not any longer.

He could do no less for his friend.

Then it was over. Aziraphale slumped on the bed-like couch next to Crowley, breathing deeply. The breath was unnecessary, of course, but it helped ground him after his ordeal. He was relieved to see that Crowley’s breath had eased, the creases of pain lines smoothing from his face. The sigil had done it’s job, bringing the demon to balance and the war in his essence to an end.

Relief eased the last tension in his mortal frame, and Aziraphale did something he had never done before. He closed his eyes, and he slept.

*****C*****

Crowley woke, and was surprised to feel rather less pain than he expected. In point of fact, he was a bit surprised to be waking at all, given what he remembered of recent events.

He remembered the trails of holy water traced across his being in searing lines of fire, then the final sigil that had drawn the Divine Essence into his own. It had hurt, beyond anything Hell had ever managed to do to him, and he had been glad to feel his awareness slipping away. His only regret was that the angel had been forced to witness his torture, and his demise.

Except, he wasn’t dead, or destroyed. And he was in much less pain than he should have been, after something like that.

Crowley took stock. He was lying on something soft, if lumpy, surrounded by the smell of leather and parchment and old paper that he recognized. A bookshop. More precisely, Aziraphale’s bookshop, according to his senses.

The Light was still present within him, but the pain had gone. He no longer felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out. And yet, he could still feel the Darkness as well, the coil of familiar demonic energy that had been his since the Fall. It swirled inside him as well. It was…

It was balanced. He felt himself twitch in surprise. He’d seen it before in humans, quite often in fact. A mix of the Divine and the Demonic, the influence of Heaven and Hell. But he’d never heard of balance in a demon. It shouldn’t be possible. Demons were Fallen, as much as angels were Heavenly.

But it was true.

Belatedly, a thought occurred to him. He was in Aziraphale’s bookshop. But where was Aziraphale? He’d always been able to feel the angel’s unique signature, but now, it was shrouded.

Crowley blinked his eyes open and sat up, frowning as a rather homely tartan blanket fell off his chest. He was lying on what looked like it might once have been Aziraphale’s couch, though it was bigger and vaguely bed-like, rather than a couch. It still had the same covering, however. He was still barefoot and bare-chested, though he spotted his clothing on an end table nearby, along with a folded sheaf of parchment. Before he could look any further, he was distracted by cool breath ghosting over his right hand, and he looked down.

Aziraphale lay flopped in an uncomfortable looking position beside him. The angel’s eyes were closed, his breathing light and even. He was, to all appearances, asleep. Crowley blinked, suspicious. Aziraphale had never slept before, to his knowledge.

Crowley reached out with his inhuman senses. It  _ was _ Aziraphale, but different. It took a moment, and then he realized what the difference was. His breath, unnecessary as it was, caught in his throat in horror.

Aziraphale’s aura, like his own, was in balance. Darkness mixed with Light. Even more shocking, the Darkness, the Demonic aura that mingled with and suffused the angel’s own Heavenly light...the energy was his own. Or, it had been. There was no taking it from Aziraphale now.

“Oh, angel, what have you done?” The words ripped from a throat still raw from his recent ordeal, and harsh with anguish. “What has been done to you?”

Anger flickered in him then. His fist clenched. “They said you were only meant to watch. If they’ve harmed you...if they’ve done this to you...” He paused as Aziraphale stirred.

The angel shifted, made a small sound, then blinked open light blue eyes. He made a mildly distressed noise and shifted into a better position, and his eyes landed upon Crowley.

Joy suffused the angel’s face, and he sat up so sharply he nearly smacked into Crowley. “Crowley! Oh, my dear Crowley, you are awake at last...” He was stopped by the demon’s hands clenching hard onto his shoulders.

“Who did this to you angel?” Crowley’s voice was a growl. “Who made you Fall like this?”

“Fall?” Aziraphale blinked at him, then at one of his hands with an odd expression. “Oh, yes, that. My dear, you needn’t worry. It’s all quite all right. At least, I think it is. And – well, no one made me Fall, precisely – that is to say...”

“Angel, you’re near half demon now.”

“Oh, yes. I know that, my dear Crowley.” Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley caught the shimmer of guilt in his eyes, the flicker of a glance to his hand.

Crowley took the hand and lifted it palm up. There, inscribed on the palm, was a sigil. He looked down at himself. A matching sigil marked him, just below the one the Heavenly Emissary had drawn. The sigil that had drawn the Divine Light into his essence. He looked up. “Angel...”

Aziraphale drew his hand away quickly, standing and looking flustered. “Now, before you get all - well, you know how you get, all flustered and such – there’s a letter that ought to explain it all. At least, I hope so. If it doesn’t, well, I’ve one that will. But I really think – well, considering the author – I really think you ought to read that first.” He stepped away and lifted the sheaf of parchment from beside Crowley’s clothing, handing it over. “I’ll just...get us something to drink, shall I?” And with that, Aziraphale slipped away, into the adjoining room to rummage in the cabinets for appropriate libation.

Crowley scowled after the angel for a moment, then looked at the parchment in his hand. He flipped it over. His name, Crowley, was written in neat script on the back. And below that – his stomach clenched – below that was the sigil of his True Name.

Unease curled in his gut. His True Name. He hadn’t seen it written since he’d signed for the Antichrist 11 years ago. It was also a secret he’d never shared with Aziraphale. And now – now the angel knew it. Had seen it. Aziraphale now had power over his essence, his innermost being, and he had no corresponding control over the angel. They’d always been equals, more or less, but now – now the balance of power had shifted, most decidedly in Aziraphale’s favor.

As if his thoughts had summoned the angel, Aziraphale returned with two glasses and a bottle. He caught the look on Crowley’s face and paused. “Whatever is the matter?”

No sense wasting words. “You know my name.”

“Well, yes. Crowley.”

“Not that. My...my Name.” He hissed the last word, oddly angry that the angel would force him to say it, force him to speak of the dominion now held over him.

“Your...now why would you think...” Aziraphale’s eyes went to the parchment. “Oh. Yes. That.” He shook his head. “I never looked. Not once I realized my own letter had  _ mine _ written on it.”

There was only truth in the angel’s tone. Crowley relaxed. “You could have. I wouldn’t have known.”

“Well, yes. But it seemed dreadfully rude, somehow. Especially after that business in the park.” Aziraphale set the bottles down. “But really, my dear, you ought to read that.”

Crowley sighed, but he unfolded the parchment.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. He was only certain, after reading the first two sentences, that what he held was  _ nothing _ he could have expected. He was very glad that he was sitting, and that Aziraphale had brought wine. Good wine, from his glance at the label. 

He read it once. Then he read it again, still expecting it to spontaneously combust, to change into something different. But no. The contents stayed the same.

_Dear Crowley,_

_And I do mean that. You are very dear to me, though perhaps, like many of the Fallen, you have forgotten that. Or perhaps not, for you never Fell as far as many others did. Nonetheless, I do mean it. You are my dear Crowley, my Serpent, my Inquisitive child, my son of Hell upon Earth._

_ You have always been so curious. Questioning. Guiding others to question. And though in the beginning, that was enough for you to Fall, it was never enough to send you into the Deepest Darkness. And though your Fall was part of my Plans, know that I have never abandoned you. I have watched you always, and I have known, since you first approached the angel of the Eastern Gate without enmity, that you would make me proud. _

_And so you have done, persisting in reaching out to Aziraphale, despite the dangers._

_I have witnessed your acts of mischief, but also your acts of kindness, your little miracles. I have seen all the times you came to Aziraphale’s aid._

_I saw you mourn, at Golgotha and the death of My Son, the Son of Man. I saw you grieve human folly in the Spanish Inquisition and the French Revolution, and the World Wars. I have witnessed, and kept record of all the little hints, all the signs that, despite your denials, you have never surrendered the last bit of My Light within you._

_And I have seen how you have remained friends – do not deny it – with Aziraphale, throughout all the trials of the years._

_And in these last days, this last decade, I saw how you fought to prevent the End, in spite of the consequences you knew would be yours. I had my own Plans in place, but what you did...it was very well done indeed, and I am prouder than you will ever know._

_You were correct, you know. The Fall, the Apple, temptation and blessing, they are part of My Plan. More than that will be revealed in time, but you are correct in that, just as your friend was correct in guessing that the Great Plan and my Ineffable Plan are not always, or even frequently, the same thing. But as I have told Aziraphale, all Plans, Great and Small and Ineffable, come to fruition in their own time and place._

_Speaking of that, I would have you know that I heard you, when you cried out to me. In that last day before what you thought would be the end, I heard you. I heard you when you cried out in grief at your Fall, for asking questions, and when you spoke your anguish over the coming fate of humanity. I did not answer, no more than I answered when you wept your grief at Aziraphale’s supposed death, but I heard your anguish and your love. Do not deny it. It was love, and nothing less, that you spoke with._

_ I did not answer, but know that you were heard, and I was never prouder of any of my children than I was of you in that moment. You, who Fell, and thought yourself cut off from My Light, and yet still called out to Me in the depths of your despair. It matters not that you cried out with anger, or in disagreement. You still reached out to Me, and that is, as I have told the humans, all that is needed. _

_You wonder, perhaps, why I say all this after you have endured what you were told was a punishment for your actions. And yet, by now you know that you have been given back a measure of Divine Light. I know, my dear Crowley, that you suffered. But I also know that you have a good friend in Aziraphale, and that he will, if he has not done already, aid you in your trial._

_It is my intention that you should both be my Guardians, my Emissaries of Heaven and Hell upon the Earth, and continue to guide the world into Balance. A balance which you both shall share. Aziraphale has the means to ensure it, if he has not yet done. Though, knowing him, he will not have left you to suffer a moment longer than he could help. Know also that it was his choice, as the acceptance of the ‘punishment’ was yours._

_ And now, you have more choices to make. What you will do next, for starters, now that you have both Grace and Damnation to contend with – though you always did, in a way. It is only that you know it now. _

_Whatever choices you make, dear Crowley, I will always be listening._

_Be well, my dear. I have Plans for you._

There wasn’t any signature, but Crowley neither needed nor expected one. The identity of the writer was clear. Even if he hadn’t seen the phrases ‘My Light’, he would have known. 

He remembered his lament, the day before the End-that-Didn’t-Quite-End-Everything. Bent over the arm of his chair, head bowed, murmuring to a Lord he had thought stopped listening eons ago. 

_ ‘I know you test them...we’re supposed to test them. But not like this. Not to destruction. Not to the end of the world.’ _

And he had been heard. That was – he wasn’t quite sure what he thought about that.

“Crowley. My dear, are you quite all right?” Aziraphale’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

His face was damp. Crowley scrubbed the dampness away quickly, ignoring the heat on the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine angel. Just dust or something is all.” He knew Aziraphale would see through the polite fiction, but the angel didn’t comment. Instead, he held out a glass of wine.

Crowley took it, drank half, then relaxed. “So...your letter...by Himself?” It was awkward, but he wasn’t sure there was a non-awkward way to ask if Aziraphale’s letter had also been from God.

“Yes. Quite. I was very surprised.”

“Hmph.  _ You _ were surprised. I’m a demon. We’re not supposed to have contact with Him. That’s part of the Fall, you know.” Crowley took a sip of wine. Then he realized he was still shirtless. With a thought, he was once more properly clothed.

“Well, yes. But I have always maintained that there was a spark of goodness deep inside you.” Aziraphale smiled. Then his face took on a thoughtful expression. “Although, I suppose you aren’t really a demon anymore.”

Crowley thought about that. About the Light and Darkness inside him. “Suppose not. Are you still an angel?”

“Well, I haven’t Fallen, not really, but I rather think...” Aziraphale’s gaze seemed to turn inward for a moment. “I suppose not. Not a conventional angel at any rate. But then...my letter did say something about Earthly Guardians...”

“Mine too. But what’s that mean?”

“Well, in absence of any more concrete instructions, I suppose it means we’re meant to go on as we have been. Tempting, thwarting, maintaining the balance of the world. We simply needn’t be embarrassed to work for what used to be the other side, as it were. You don’t need to fear a reprimand for a miracle, and that sort of thing.”

“Ah.” Crowley finished his wine, obtained a refill with a thought. 

It didn’t seem like a bad thing, this whole Earthly Guardians business. And he wasn’t sorry, not really, to feel the glow of Divine Light once more within his being. It took a bit of getting used to, but it wasn’t bad. Although…

He tilted his gaze back to Aziraphale. “How are you feeling?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The...the Darkness. My Darkness. Inside you now. Are you...okay?” Once again, his usually clever tongue tripped over the words. But then, it was another of those questions which seemed like it couldn’t help being awkward. 

“Oh. Yes. That.” Aziraphale blinked. “Well, acquiring it was rather uncomfortable, but now everything seems to be just fine. A bit different, of course. But not a bad sort of different.”

Crowley snorted. “Come on now. It’s definitely a bad sort of different, what with being demonic energy.”

Aziraphale managed to look embarrassed and vaguely offended all at the same time. “You know what I mean.”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah. I reckon I do.” He drank some more. “It’s like the End. What we thought was The End. Everything’s the same, and everything’s different.”

“Yes. Quite.”

Crowley thought about it some more. Then he sighed again, setting down his now empty wineglass and rising to his feet, stretching the way he often did after a good long sleep. “I suppose I ought to go home, make sure the plants are getting on all right. Meet you back for dinner?”

“Yes. Sounds splendid.” Aziraphale nodded. 

Crowley gave his enemy – no, not enemy, not now – his new partner, a smile. “We’ll have to talk over the Arrangement and all.”

“Yes. I suspect we should.” Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley gave him a nonchalant wave, then strolled to the door of the shop. Outside, the autumn sun was shining, warm and bright, though it was setting. Cars rumbled and coughed their way down the streets. Birds flew overhead. The chattering of thousands of people formed a low buzz in the background. 

Everything was the same. And yet, it was all different too. 

Crowley realized he’d left the letter on Aziraphale’s couch. He thought about going back in and getting it, then shook his head. He could get it tonight, when he came over for dinner. Sushi, if there was a decent sushi takeaway, sounded good. If not, there were other things. 

He should have been afraid of Aziraphale picking it up and reading it, reading his True Name on the back, but he was oddly calm. Even with the Darkness inside him, Aziraphale wasn’t that sort. And if he did pick it up, if he did read the Name on the back, well, he rather thought that Aziraphale would return the favor, and they’d be even once more. Besides, they’d had each other’s backs for 6000 years. And now, through the will of the Highest Authority, it was not only permitted, but sanctioned and even encouraged. 

And wasn’t that something, no longer having to fear Hell’s wrath, or Heaven’s?

Whistling, Crowley hopped into his Bentley and made his way down the road, idly turning all the lights green to speed him home, just because he could. And if he surreptitiously cleared the way for a medical bus to get through, thereby saving someone’s life and leading someone else to believe in miracles, well, that was all right now.

He had choices. They both did. And yes, there would be consequences, probably consequences they couldn’t even fathom, like this one. But it was still a wonderful new feeling of freedom to have.

He rather thought that both he and Aziraphale were going to enjoy it.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this after watching the mini-series, while recovering from a bad cold.


End file.
